


Just Fall

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis hasn't been having a good day. He needs a hug. Porthos isn't home.</p><p>Athos is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Aramis is cold. He’s miserable, to be quite precise, and he needs a hug. That’s why he’s shuffling from one foot to the other while he waits for the buzzer to open the front door to Porthos’ apartment building instead of sitting on his own couch with a cup of tea and a minor panic attack, waiting for his ceiling to fall down around his ears.

He should have listened to Constance when she told him not to move into that house, no matter how charming he found its fragile appearance.

The door unlocks with a buzzing sound, and Aramis pushes inside, his shoulders pulled high against the chilly October wind. He shuffles along the floor towards the elevator, and feels a tiny bit better as he enters it. It’s warm and comfortable, clean and shiny as always.

Unlike his home, this elevator is a bastion of comfort and safety.

He sighs and pushes the button to the penthouse, and leans back against the padded wall behind him as the doors close, and the elevator rumbles to life and bears him upward.

He just hopes Porthos is home … well, someone is, someone has let him in after all, otherwise he wouldn’t be in this elevator right now, but Athos might not be inclined to give Aramis the kind of hug he needs.

The kind that lasts all night, if possible.

His bathroom is a danger zone! The plaster is coming down in chunks!

Aramis groans and pushes the hair out of his face with his left hand.

He doesn’t want to go looking for a new apartment. Not that he’s particularly fond of the current one, but it’s cheap and close to work AND close to Porthos and Athos. He doesn’t want to move. He makes it over to them seldom enough as it is.

The elevator stops with that sensation of momentary weightlessness Aramis never particularly enjoyed, and opens its doors for him with a happy plonking noise that falls sadly flat in the face of Aramis’ mood.

He steps out onto the floor and heads for his favourite door in the whole world, all cheery and white with a brass-knob to make it even cheerier.

He knocks once and waits, and the door opens to reveal Athos, clad in the holiest of his (Porthos’) old hoodies, paint spots adorning its front.

“Good evening. Porthos is not at home, I’m afraid.” He takes one look at Aramis’ face, and then he turns away. “Come on in. I’ll be right back.”

Aramis blinks after him as he marches away towards his room. This is not quite the welcome he expected. But he steps into the apartment nevertheless, closes the door, and takes off his jacket and his shawl and hangs them up next to Athos’ on the coat rack. When he turns around Athos is back already, in one of his (Porthos’) cardigans instead of the paint-covered hoody.

“You’ve looked happier,” he states, puts his arm around Aramis and pulls him in and against his chest.

Aramis blinks over his shoulder for a moment, not quite sure what’s happening. Athos rubs his hand over Aramis’ back, and Aramis clings to him, closes his eyes and lets out a drawn-out sigh. God, this feels good.

“Aramis?” Athos murmurs next to his ear, “Are you alright?”

“My apartment is trying to kill me,” he mumbles, and Athos lets go of him to look at his face. Urgh, he should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“Tea?” Athos asks, all gentle hospitality, and Aramis bites his tongue for a second, before he allows the truth to spill out.

“A cup of your coffee would actually be so much better?” He phrases it as a question to keep up at least the resemblance of civility, and Athos smiles at him.

“You shall have it.”

Aramis keeps close to him as they walk over to the kitchen area, hovers as Athos prepares the coffee, and casts longing glances at his cardigan.

It smells like Porthos.

“Now explain how your apartment is trying to kill you,” Athos demands once the coffee preparations are completed, and leans against the kitchen unit right next to Aramis. Aramis contemplates snuggling up to him until Athos has no other choice but to put his arm around him, and finally decides against it in favour of regaling Athos with the tale of his rental woes, and all the little and big repairs his landlord keeps promising him but never actually performs.

Athos frowns through the whole story, doesn’t even stop when the coffee pot whistles at him to proclaim deliciousness prepared.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asks when Aramis is finished, and takes the coffee-pot off the stove to replace it with a can of milk. “Porthos is sleeping at the orphanage to help out because Gwen is teething and Charon has the flu, but you can stay in his room if you want to.”

It’s not quite what Aramis came here for, but it’s far better than going back home and lying awake all night, listening to the creaking walls, so he nods. “Yes, thank you.”

Athos smiles and gets the cookie-jar out of the cupboard. “I expect you’ll be moving in here soon enough anyway.”

Aramis flushes and stares down at the floor. “Ah, I don’t know about that. Porthos and I haven’t talked about it yet.”

It’s been almost five months – Aramis has been counting the days, so to speak – since they met face to face, but due to their respective working hours they mostly only see each other on the weekends. Aramis would be the first to admit that he’d love to see Porthos on a daily basis, and Athos as well, but it’s definitely too early to –

“You could always move into the guest room,” Athos says quietly, his voice very careful. “If you wanted to.”

Aramis stares at him. Athos pretends not to notice, and takes the warm milk off the stove to pour a leaf into Aramis’ coffee.

He prepares another cup for himself, leaf-free, and carries the cups over to the couch. “Bring the cookie-jar.”

Aramis does as he is told, and sits down next to Athos on the couch. “You … you think he would be ok with me moving in?”

Athos smirks at him. “I am certain he would be ecstatic. He starts missing you one hour after you have left – and that scarf you cannot find? He has it. He wears it to work.”

A flush starts to spread out over Aramis’ face, down his neck and his chest, and he’s pretty sure the grin he’s currently sporting is permanent. “But he never gets cold.”

“My point exactly,” Athos says dryly. He opens the jar Aramis has placed on the table and waves it under Aramis’ nose. “Have a cookie.”

Aramis reaches out to take one, and munches it contemplating his options – contemplating Athos. “You’re sure you’d want me around?”

Aramis doesn’t mean to sound so insecure. He knows Athos likes him – he gave him cookies again – but liking someone and living with someone are two very different things.

Athos widens his eyes at him. “Have I given you the impression that I do not? I did not mean to do that – I promise you.”

He sounds entirely too earnest, and Aramis dips his head and smiles down at his lap. “No, no – it’s not that, you didn’t – you’re so nice, really, you’re always so nice, it’s just –“

“I like having you here,” Athos interrupts him gently. “You make Porthos happy.”

Aramis’ heart jumps up into his throat for a few beats, and he just … dips sideways and into Athos, who promptly brings his arm up to hold him, giving him the kind of hug Aramis has been craving all day.

Turns out Athos is very good at giving Aramis precisely what he needs.


	2. Chapter 2

They fall asleep on the couch. Aramis admits freely – to himself, not out loud, oh God – that it’s at least half on purpose on his part.

Athos has his arm around him while they are watching a movie on TV, and it feels … it just is … Athos is still wearing Porthos’ cardigan. He’s warm, and he smells nice, and Aramis hasn’t been this comfortable since he last cuddled with Porthos.

He needs this.

So he pretends not to be tired at all when Athos asks him if he wants to go to bed, but instead suggests to watch another movie. Athos agrees, because he is a good host and overall far too nice, and stays with Aramis on the couch despite the fact that he’s the proverbial early bird and thus tends to go to bed rather early as well.

Aramis feels a bit guilty when he spots him yawning out of the corner of his eye. Athos really does look tired. His eyes are half closed, and his cheeks a bit flushed, and his chin keeps drooping towards his chest. Athos does not complain though; instead he keeps his arm securely around Aramis’ shoulders, and that’s all that matters, really.

 

Aramis wakes up around midnight. The couch is huge and immensely well upholstered, but that doesn’t quite explain how very comfortable he is.

The fact that he’s lying on top of Athos, beneath a blanket, with his head on Athos’ chest explains quite a lot on the other hand.

Aramis always preferred sleeping on people over sleeping on … everything else, really.

He’s just drowsy and content enough not to panic right away, but instead stretches with a little sigh, and presses his sock-clad toes into the squishy leather of the couch.

Then he realizes.

He’s – they are – Athos –

Aramis’ frazzled mind comes to a screeching halt when he notices the most important detail of his predicament: blanket.

Aramis blinks at Athos’ chest, terribly aware of the arms encircling his waist. They’re covered by a blanket. Athos. Athos has covered them with a blanket.

This can only mean that Athos either woke up sometime during the night, found that it would be impossible to move without waking Aramis and made the best of a rather awkward situation … or he put the blanket around Aramis while he still intended to leave him on the couch by himself?

Somehow Aramis cannot bring himself to entertain that possibility.

He’s still confused why Athos did not simply wake him up and made him go to Porthos’ room to sleep there. But he’s still very sleepy, and Athos is still so very warm and smells unbelievably nice.

So. Aramis … just … closes his eyes.

He’s allowed to, certainly. Athos is holding him after all.

A tiny sigh escapes him, and Aramis feels his mouth pull into a smile as he rubs his cheek very, very carefully over Athos’ chest. Athos’ arms tighten around him when he does that, and Athos makes a tiny noise, but he sleeps on and does not stir awake.

Aramis blushes.

Maybe he … shouldn’t be doing this. He remembers Flea dropping hints about Athos being rather stand-offish normally, that he needs his space and quite a number of solitary hours in his day.

Aramis deprived him of both today.

Athos was obviously painting when Aramis invaded the apartment. That’s an important outlet for him, Porthos told Aramis so.

So not only did Aramis interrupt Athos’ artistic endeavour, he forced Athos into making coffee, and didn’t even let the man go to bed when he was obviously tired and in need of sleep.

The realization makes Aramis feel quite dreadful. He tries to get out of Athos’ arms as carefully as possible, but only succeeds in waking him.

Suddenly Athos’ eyes are open, are looking at him, all huge and black in the half-light of the room, and Aramis swallows, unable to look away. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Athos whispers. His voice is rough, but his eyes are sharp, fully awake and aware of everything.

Aramis relaxes instantly. Athos is visibly comfortable. He has no problem with finding himself in this situation at all.

“I thought you might want to go to bed,” Aramis murmurs, flushing a bit, “sleep alone.”

“I am here, am I not,” Athos replies, the drawl clear in his voice, although it still sounds rough from sleeping. “I’m not completely oblivious, you see – I noticed why you would not let me turn off the TV.”

Aramis has no idea what to say to that, and Athos rubs a soothing hand over his back. “Do you want to get up? Change into pyjamas and sleep in a proper bed?”

He makes it sound so nice, enticing really, and Aramis sighs. “I don’t think I could fall asleep alone in Porthos’ bed right now.”

An amused huff brushes Aramis’ hair. “Then we’d best stay here, yes? I’m not sure Porthos would condone it if I took you to bed with me – but this is innocent enough.”

Aramis’ mouth pulls into a helpless grin, and he can feel a flush spreading all the way down his back. “Are you sure?”

“About Porthos?” Athos drawls at him. “No. He might condone it after all – he trusts us. He is also weirdly in favour of us spending time together.”

Aramis bites his lip, and Athos rubs his hand over his back again. “Go back to sleep, Aramis. I promise you that this is perfectly alright.”

Aramis believes him – but then he was always ready to believe the best of people, not always to his benefit.

Athos feels safe, though. It took Aramis years to learn how to properly listen to his gut, and Athos … Athos is the safest person he’s ever been around, apart from Porthos.

Both of them are … they are kind, selfless people, and Aramis knows that Athos would never do anything to hurt Porthos … would never do anything to hurt Aramis … or anyone else, for that matter.

This is … Aramis expects this is what having a brother feels like. Or a close cousin, maybe.

Or just a really good friend who gives you a hug when you need one and holds you all through the night without complaint.

“You’re nice,” Aramis tells him in a drowsy voice, half-asleep again already. “’M glad you’re Porthos’ friend.”

“Likewise,” he hears Athos whisper. “And I am your friend too, Aramis.”

Aramis smiles and rubs his cheek over Athos’ chest, Athos, who is so warm and comfortable and safe – who strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair and pulls the blanket higher up his shoulders. “Good night, Aramis.”

“Good night,” Aramis murmurs with a sigh, and falls asleep, clinging to Athos’ cardigan, listening to his heart beat.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos comes home at about five in the morning. It’s still dark outside. The big apartment windows, curtain-free as they are, do absolutely nothing to disturb Aramis’ slumber. It is a cloudy night, moon and stars just the suggestion of light behind a veil of rain-clouds.

What disturbs Aramis is the sudden light of the ceiling lamp, as well as Porthos’ little grunt of surprise when he spots them. He's just visible from their position on the couch, eyes wide as he looks at them. Aramis is still lying on top of Athos, Athos’ arms are still circling his waist, and Aramis panics suddenly, panics that Porthos will see them and think –

“Hi there,” Porthos murmurs at him, and dims the lights until they are barely noticeable anymore. “Sorry.”

He takes off his jacket and boots and then comes over to the couch. Aramis watches him, his head still on Athos’ chest, stares at him in rising fear, until Porthos opens his mouth and speaks, “I didn’t know you wanted to come over, did I? I didn’t forget you?” He crouches down beside the couch and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ slack mouth. “Did you have a nice evening with Athos?”

“Will you stop talking?” Athos murmurs from beneath Aramis, barely awake but thoroughly disgruntled. “Just take him to bed, please.”

Aramis blushes and Porthos grins. “No, I don’t think so.” And then he lies down, stretches his body out next to Athos on the couch, and throws his arm around Aramis. “This is much better.”

Athos grunts in feigned disgust. “Go to bed!”

“No,” Porthos grins and stretches to hit the switch above the back of the couch, turning off the lights. “You didn’t go to bed either – why should I?”

“Oh, just shut up,” Athos grumbles, and Aramis smiles when Porthos brushes a teasing kiss to Athos’ forehead.

Aramis is delighted. This is beyond perfect. Porthos. Porthos is perfect. Aramis moves a little closer towards him, and receives a kiss of his own – another one to the lips. “Hey you,” Porthos whispers, and Aramis feels him smile.

“I told you to stop talking,” Athos mumbles. Aramis hides his grin against his chest, and Porthos does as he’s told, keeps quiet and covers the patches of Aramis’ face currently available to him in kisses – mostly his earlobe. Athos falls back asleep in seconds, and Aramis listens to his breathing evening out, listens to his steady heartbeat beneath his ear. Porthos’ arm is heavy on his back, and Aramis breathes in his smell and his warmth, and relaxes so much that he very nearly melts.

This is … perfect doesn’t even begin to cover it. If Aramis wasn’t so sleepy, he would be even more astonished at Porthos’ behaviour than he already is. Porthos who trusts him already, who finds him in a compromising position and doesn’t even mention it, who loves his best friend so much that he –

“Go back to sleep,” Porthos whispers at him, almost inaudible. “You’ll wake Athos right back up again with your mind goin’ into a whirr like that.”

He spreads his hand on Aramis’ back, gently strokes up and down, and Aramis feels his body turn to putty beneath his touch. “Yeah, alright.”

He’s half asleep already when Porthos brushes a goodnight kiss to his cheek.

 

Luckily for all of them, the next morning happens to be a Saturday. If it wasn’t, Aramis would be so late for work when he wakes up that Constance would probably kill him without asking questions first. Matters being as they are, Aramis is able to wake up without fearing for his life. What he notices first is Athos’ voice, low but urgent, addressing Porthos, “Wake up, you big lump! Move, Porthos, just move – ugh, you’re worse than a landslide!”

He repeats this message with quite a number of unflattering similes, but Porthos merely grunts and remains blissfully unconscious. Instead of him, Aramis opens his eyes. Athos closes his mouth rather abruptly.

“You didn’t wake me,” Aramis says instantly, not quite certain if this is actually true, but not really caring either way, “I woke up by myself.”

Athos blinks at him, green eyes wide awake and wondering, and then their corners crinkle in a soft smile. “If you say so.”

“Do you want me to get up?” Aramis asks him, all eager helpfulness, and Athos sighs.

“Yes, please.”

So Aramis puts his hands down left and right of him to push himself up, careful not to push Porthos off the couch in the process. Porthos sleeps through it, even when Aramis moves back far enough so Athos can make his escape and hurry towards the bathroom. Aramis lies back down and pulls Porthos closer to him, and Porthos still doesn’t wake up. He must have been up all night with Gwen to be so tired, Aramis thinks, and brushes his fingertips through Porthos’ curls. His reward is a tiny noise of bliss and Porthos coming down on him like a living blanket, pulling him to his chest and burying his nose in Aramis’ hair.

Aramis closes his eyes and surrenders. He is lying on his side, with his back to the backrest of the couch, pretty much trapped by the bulk of Porthos’ body. He can say with some conviction that captivity has never felt this nice.

“Do you want coffee for breakfast?” Athos asks him once he emerges from the bathroom, and Aramis replies with a very soft yes.

“Don’t worry about Porthos,” Athos drawls and steps towards the kitchen area. “He won’t wake up until he smells food.”

Aramis huffs out a surprised little laugh, and strokes his hand over Porthos’ back. “Yes, it seems he’s rather out of it.”

“We need to wake him up for breakfast though,” Athos says, “He’ll be useless for days if we don’t – he needs his rhythm.”

Aramis soaks the information up like a sponge, and cuddles up to Porthos as long as he still has the chance. Athos is quick in preparing coffee, and then busies himself with getting some buns out of the freezer and into the oven, before he starts to arrange a lavish breakfast table. Aramis watches him over Porthos’ shoulder, faintly smiling to himself. He needs quite a while before he’s sufficiently awake to allow the idea into his brain that he could at least offer his help.

A normal human being might manage to do so without sliding halfway into panic-mode.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Aramis babbles, not quite sure how to dislodge Porthos without waking him, but trying to nevertheless, “I’ll help you in a second, just let me –“

“Please calm down,” Athos says softly, “let’s not wake Porthos before we have to.”

Aramis’ interrupts his struggle to stare up at him – and he has no idea how Athos managed to walk over without him noticing, he is clearly losing his touch –

“Let me state one simple fact to avoid this situation in the future,” Athos says gently, and crouches down so Aramis and him are on eye-level, “if I am displeased with you, I will say so. If I want your help in any form, I will say so as well. For now rest assured that I am perfectly capable to prepare breakfast for three without spraining anything.” There is a slight pause, and Athos purses his lips. “Just do not expect any pancakes.”

Aramis blinks, and then the kind of smile breaks over his face his mother used to take pictures of when he was five and entirely incapable of even suspecting the world of danger and heartbreak. “Alright.”

Athos smiles back at him, warmer and softer than ever, and Aramis relaxes into the couch, follows Athos with his eyes when he straightens and walks back over to the kitchen to take the coffee maker off the stove.

Porthos doesn’t wake up until the buns are almost ready, and the oven timer is about to alert them of that fact. It doesn’t need to. Porthos makes an interested noise and then he blinks awake, a bit bleary-eyed, but smiling once he recognizes Aramis. “Oh, hey you – still here, yeah? I thought I might have dreamed that.”

Aramis is so very much in love with Porthos in that moment that he leans forward and kisses him right on the mouth.

“Good dream,” Porthos murmurs once they part, and bites his bottom lip trying to control the bashful grin taking over his face, “very good dream.”

He blinks and turns his head until he spots Athos by the kitchen area. “You were here too, weren’t you.”

“This morning when you came home?” Athos clarifies. “Of course I was. Did you think I would abandon Aramis to the couch all by himself?”

“Thought so,” Porthos murmurs, quiet enough that only Aramis can hear him. His bashful grin turns into a full-blown smile, and Aramis has to blink a few times to process the brightness of it. “And now you’re making breakfast.”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, very dignified, “I am.”

“That’s it!” Porthos says and heaves himself off Aramis and the couch in one smooth effort. “I’m callin' your mother!”

“You are being ridiculous,” Athos informs him. “I have made breakfast before.”

“Yes,” Porthos allows generously, “for me.”

He steps over to the old-fashioned phone mounted on the wall next to the couch, picks up, and dials.

Aramis fails to be surprised that he actually does call Athos’ mother. He listens with a faint grin as Porthos chats with her for a few minutes, informing her of her son’s activities of the last few days, and finally reaches out his hand, phone and all, and grins at Athos. “Your mother wants to speak to you.”

“I’m never making breakfast again,” Athos states, but he does take the phone from Porthos.


	4. Chapter 4

Athos manages to keep the chat with his mother short, promising her another one later in the week. While still talking to her he has to say “Yes, Mother, I really did” quite a lot, and keeps repeating the words “No, he did not exaggerate” with a somewhat bemused expression – as though he cannot possibly understand why the fact that he is being nice to Aramis seems to inspire such excitement in everyone he knows.

When he hangs up, he is faintly smiling to himself, and Aramis likes the soft look his eyes have adopted. Aramis liked the way Athos talked to his mother, too, no drawl or sarcasm in this voice, instead full of warmth and gentle affection, even when she kept asking questions about his apparently endlessly thrilling behaviour towards Aramis.

Aramis does not know Athos’ mother, but he thinks she must be a good person.

“Thank you for that,” Athos says to Porthos once he has hung up the phone and returned to the kitchen area, trying to sound ironic, but not quite managing.

“You’re welcome,” Porthos replies with a fond grin, picking up on the sincerity in Athos’ voice and giving it back tenfold. “Are we ready for breakfast then?”

“I’m not the one who created a delay,” Athos drawls at him, and Aramis’ mouth, already smiling, pulls so wide it almost hurts.

He likes the way Athos and Porthos keep teasing each other – likes the way they allow him to witness their friendship without hiding anything, without playing polite.

Porthos winks at him when he spots his smile, and Aramis blushes a bit. He sat down at the breakfast table when Athos started talking to his mother. Now he moves to get up to help, but is quickly waved down again by both Athos and Porthos. So he watches them instead, watches as Athos puts the finishing touches on his coffee, while Porthos gets the buns out of the oven – watches them move around each other in a quiet, unobtrusive way that speaks of years of silent communication and effortless understanding.

It feels comfortable, being with them – as if Aramis has known them for years, and doesn’t need to watch himself around them so much. He had missed this feeling, had craved it more than anything since he left home.

“So,” Athos says conversationally when he has delivered three cups of artfully decorated coffee to the table, “did you know Aramis’ apartment is a death-trap?”

He straightens to look at Porthos, his demeanour almost accusing, and Porthos blinks at him, clearly caught off his guard. “Did I know what now?”

Aramis flutters his hands at Athos, urging him to abort this line of communication. He doesn’t want Porthos to worry about him; he will get out of his current apartment and find a new one, there is no need for worry. “He didn’t know – and it’s really not that bad, it’s just that –“

“Aramis came over yesterday,” Athos interrupts him firmly, “because part of his bathroom ceiling fell down, and took his mood right with it.”

Porthos blinks and stares, and then makes an abortive movement towards Aramis as though he wants to check him for injuries. “I’ve never been to his place,” he says slowly, still staring at Aramis, his mind visibly at work, “I didn’t know.”

Silence stretches out between them, heavy with meaning, and Porthos turns his head to look at Athos.

“I already offered him the guestroom,” Athos finally says in answer to his stare, dignity personified. “I could hardly force him to move in.”

Porthos’ head snaps back towards Aramis, and his eyes hold the worst puppy-look Aramis has ever encountered. “Don’t you want to?”

The effort not to groan costs Aramis so much energy that he starts to feel weak. Of course he wants to. More than is probably healthy. But he can’t just move in like that, that’s not how it works; he promised himself to be sensible about this relationship, to think before he acts for once in his life. Still, what he says is, “I don’t want to impose.“

Because that’s the truth, sensible decision-making and not falling headfirst into love with Porthos be damned.

… It might be a tad too late for that anyway.

The force of Athos’ frown in reaction to this simple statement hits Aramis like a brick to the gut. So this is what it feels like when Athos is displeased with one. Aramis has to suppress the sudden urge to rock back and forth on his chair in shame and disgrace.

“I – I mean –“ he stammers, flushing to the roots of his hair, “I know you offered, but still –“

“It’s alright,” Porthos says gently, comes over to the table, crouches down next to Aramis and takes Aramis’ hand into his, “I didn’t mean to push, I’m sorry.”

Athos clears his throat and smiles, his frown nothing but a bad memory. “If it is mere politeness that is keeping you back, Aramis – it shouldn’t. The room is yours if you want it. I mean it. You are not imposing. I want you out of that decrepit building.”

Aramis bites his lip and blushes even hotter. “I couldn’t possibly afford –“

Porthos squeezes his hand. “You think I’m affordin’ this place on a social-worker’s salary?”

Athos clears his throat once more, this time in a very cautious manner, seems suddenly rather flustered. “I’ve made it a habit of mine to not take money from my friends.”

Aramis goggles at him, forgetting his own nervousness in the light of this unforeseen development. “I can’t live here for free!”

“Pay him in donations for the orphanage,” Porthos says softly, “that’s how I do it.” He squeezes Aramis’ hand again. “And now we’re gonna stop botherin’ you.”

He stands up and leans over Aramis to brush a kiss to his forehead, and then turns around to get the rolls from the kitchen counter where he’d previously abandoned them.

Aramis sits where Porthos left him, his mind in a whirr. His heart knows precisely what it wants, as does his the rest of him … with the exception of rather tenacious second thoughts.

Moving in at this point in their relationship could ruin everything.

But so could a refusal.

Athos sits down on Aramis’ right at the table, forehead creased into thoughtful lines, and Aramis makes a hasty grab for his coffee cup. He feels much better once he’s taken a sip, and manages to relax a little. Porthos supplies him with a roll, still warm from the oven, and no-one says anything for a few minutes, hands busy with preparing their food.

Athos still looks thoughtful though, and when he raises his gaze to fix it on Aramis, Aramis can feel it – can feel the worry and uncertainty behind it, and swallows thickly. “I want to move in,” he admits very softly. “I really want to. I just –“ he looks over at Porthos, “don’t you think it’s too soon?”

Porthos stares at him as though that thought never even occurred to him. Then he smiles, self-conscious and slightly embarrassed. “Eh. It might be?”

He chuckles, and Aramis has to smile, too, is finally able to take a deep breath and feel the same level of comfort around Porthos and Athos he usually does – even when Porthos shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips. “I still want you to move in though.”

The delight his words cause is undeniable, and Aramis doesn’t have it in him to deny himself the pleasure of giving in any longer. He bites his lip. “You could show me the guest room after breakfast?”

Porthos beams at him, and Athos seems to soften as well – the worry-lines finally clear from his forehead, and he eats with slightly more enthusiasm – offers Aramis a second cup of coffee as soon as Aramis has emptied the first.

Aramis takes him up on his offer, receives a fresh cup with elaborate art on top, and the promise that he will help him move, should Aramis want him to.

Aramis gives in to the burning desire to hug him, mostly because he hasn’t any strength left to resist temptation of any kind.

Athos keeps still while Aramis hugs his midsection, and after a while his hand comes up to pat Aramis’ head, awkward, but undeniably gentle. “It’s just a cup of coffee, Aramis.”

Aramis only hugs him harder, and pushes his face into the soft t-shirt Athos is wearing beneath Porthos’ cardigan. “No, it’s really not.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Puppy Piles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561302) by [musicmillennia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia)




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